Cocktails of Love
by spiralbound
Summary: Things aren't straightforward. Life's a jumbled mix of many things. Short drabbles across time. Faberry.
1. cocktails of love

Author's note: Rated M. There's a fair amount of alcohol, some physical activities, probably some typos and lack of proper grammar that all contribute to that rating. Check the references for more info on the drinks.

(cranberry and apple)

Rachel is tiny. She reaches up to her dads' arms and they call her "little muppet." She sings. She plays. Her voice is big and it will be even bigger one day. Her heart is open.

There is a boy, Carrotsky or something, who is mean at school. He seems very angry and he scares Rachel and some of the other students. From the first day of high school, he yells and shouts in the hallways so everyone moves out of his way. Some other boys walk next to him and they scare Rachel too.

He comes up to the tiny brunette before lunchtime and pushes her to the lockers. Rachel shuts her eyes and wraps her arms around herself. He calls her weird and a freak and other words the girl doesn't understand. She opens her eyes when he tells her to watch. She sees him holding a cup filled up with something blue. The ice is swimming.

The boy as if freezes and stares shocked at something behind Rachel. The singer is too scared to move. Her bullies leave. Next to her, a golden girl with a white dress with daisies on it and long silky hair, the color of stars, stands. Her eyebrow is raised and she looks radiant, strong but intimidating too, nonetheless.

Rachel has seen Quinn before. They know each other. They haven't talked. The blonde moves forward past the shorter girl. She holds the door of the cafeteria open and smiles lightly, somehow welcoming and yet not quite warm. "Are you coming or not, Rachel?"

* * *

They sit mostly in silence. Rachel is still shocked and her hands tremble like the leaves of trees in fall. The skin of her back is still cold from her the touch of the metal lockers. Her collared shirt feels too tight from the boy's hands that pushed her. Rachel knows she is an outsider and knows it's not going to be easy. Her heart cracks with an unnamed pain. But Quinn is smiling timidly. That matters.

The blonde grabs Rachel's cranberry juice and pours half of it in an empty cup. She adds a bit of her apple juice and stirs it shortly with a plastic fork. It's makeshift and impromptu, much like the two of them. Quinn fumbles with words a bit and says something about how mixing things together makes them better. And finally -

"Drink," she says "it's sweet but there's more to it."

* * *

They're not friends by any means. They rarely talk. They don't eat together or sit together in class. Quinn has Cheerios and Rachel has Glee. Sometimes Rachel catches herself wishing they were closer. Not only because Quinn scares everyone in the school and the bullies stay away but because the girl is smart and funny and cares about Rachel in a way that is unassuming, quiet and giving without asking for anything in return.

It becomes a habit and a sort of secret between the two. Quinn has a thermo mug which keeps any liquid as hot or as cold as it should be. She passes it to Rachel everyday like it is a cryptic message only for the singer to understand. It is like a game. Maybe it is one. The brunette tries to guess what it's going to be every day. The first ones taste funny and aren't that good. Tomato and cucumber are odd but it soon turns to tomatoes and carrots and a little bit of apple juice for the days Rachel has long hours of singing practice.

Quinn finds Rachel doesn't like lemon or lime too much but she still makes her lemonade to tease her. She does it to see her smile and hear her ramble which she finds endearing. Secretly. It's not something she will admit even to herself. Rachel always drinks anything Quinn mixes. If something is left, it's not more than a sip. The blonde loves the refreshing sourness of pomegranate and lemon and she downs the last drops when the mug is returned. The days pass and they talk less and less. Sometimes the thermo is left in the brunette's locker and nothing is said at all. No words are needed. The game goes on.

* * *

Freshman year of high school is almost over. They still aren't friends. Sometimes Quinn isn't around and people push and taunt Rachel more frequently. It's easy for them to do so. The girl doesn't fight. She stands her ground proud and unapologetic of who she is but she never fights back.

Watermelon and raspberry are a perfect pink duet in which the little Berry drowns all the things she doesn't understand. Why kids are mean. What she did to deserve it. She drinks and moves on. Peach and orange, mango and kiwi, all the wonderful concoctions that Quinn makes. It's a quiet thing. No one needs to know.

Quinn forgets to make drinks every now and then. The mug appears in Rachel's locker less and less. The blonde wears a Cheerios uniform in the hallways, everyday now. Her golden cross shines on her neck. Girls who want to be her follow her around. Boys smile silly smiles and carry her books. It isn't supposed to hurt but it does anyway.

"What a freak, Quinn, isn't she?" one of the Christian girls yells one evening. The blonde shrugs, "I wouldn't waste my time."

The cracks in Rachel's heart are everywhere, like the unwatered soil burned from the sun. But the light comes through the cracks and gets to the very dark. There could be hope for rain. Or maybe it's just tears.

* * *

The next day Quinn is waiting at her locker. It's early and hardly anyone is in school. She gives her the mug and nothing is spoken. It's pineapple and pear. Sweet and soothing, a pretty yellow, and it seems just right. Only now does Rachel notice a yellow sticker on the mug.

Quinn smiles a sad smile and by instinct the brunette grabs her hand, laces their fingers and squeezes. It feels so natural, like they make sense. Like peanut butter and jelly, like the Sun and the Moon, like the sky and the stars, like the ocean and the sand, like cranberry and apple. Like everything, like nothing at all in the world.

Quinn lets go and starts to walk but Rachel feels like she is losing something big and has to do something - anything.

"Quinn, do you remember what you told me that day in the cafeteria? With the cranberry and apple?"

Quinn turns slowly and her expression is stoic. It's something new the girl does, showing nothing.

"You said," Rachel continues, "that's things taste better together, that the flavors are richer and easier to drink and…" the girls hesitates "you said it's always better together."

Quinn stares idly but her hazel eyes are storming.

"Do you still think that? Better together?"

Quinn nods. It's barely visible.

"Always, Quinn?"

"Always."

* * *

(blood and tears)

It takes a while to learn but the lesson is given. It's actually a lie. It's not any two or three things that are mixed that work well together. It's the quantity, the selection, the addition, the stirring, the blend. It's the whole fit. And it's ultimately a matter of taste.

Quinn carries a bigger cross around her neck and it shines with a light that pierces Rachel's eyes. The singer never averts her gaze. She's gotten used to the names and the slushies. Watermelon is usually easiest to clean but cherry and blue raspberry are much more difficult. The ones that she can't clean at all come from the new Head Cheerio. Quinn mixes them and the liquid makes a stain that is impossible to take out. Always impossible. Always is a word that can burn. Rachel doesn't believe in promises anymore.

* * *

Finn gives Quinn a gardenia. To match her eyes. It's Rachel's idea.

When Quinn slaps Rachel at prom in the bathroom, the sadness in the hazel pools matches nothing but the singer's pain. The golden girl is sorry and is forgiven. It's not even a question.

The next day, again –it's always the next day- Quinn hands Rachel a warm tea. She has picked out white pear, grey lavender and a faint hint of honeybush caramel.

Quinn's Bible is open at Proverbs 20:30 which says _Blows and wounds cleanse away evil, and beatings purge the inmost being._

She shakes her head and she shakes her faith. Things aren't so straightforward anymore.

Quinn's skin will never again touch Rachel's with anything like malice for all the time they will know each other but neither of them is aware of that now.

* * *

By a strange habit Rachel still mixes her fruit juices. She sings even more, goes to the local theater, loves the movies and already owns a wonderful collection of showtunes. Her dads listen to the blues and her house fills with sound and love. It's a safe haven and it's nice to know the world has such places. (_I used to live alone before I knew you_)

Boys come and go, words and rumors pass by the hallways and echo through the empty rooms as students file out. She likes some, loves some even. There's praise and there's hurt. Rachel grows and her voice is beautiful now. Her heart is too but it isn't full.

Quinn is pregnant and her father kicks her out. Her cross disappears. Nine months pass and Quinn isn't pregnant. It's subdued and faith seems different. Her hair is pink and then again, it isn't. A smaller cross appears. She doesn't trust anyone. Rachel tries to comfort her many times but Quinn clenches to her Bible and her confusion. There isn't much left for her. She doesn't believe in promises either. (_I am a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in_)

* * *

They talk more but they fight. Quinn is lost and so is her mother and so is their big marble house, somewhere torn in time and memories and dust and empty spaces and empty glasses. Rachel has Finn but it's in an assuming way where things are owed and her dreams aren't the main road. So they fight and it's odd, after so much silence to start from a new place which is so important and so fragile.

For once, Quinn showers Rachel in words. She doesn't support the marriage but in the end the inked words on the ex-cheerleader's Bible say all the girl hopes the future has for the songstress (_plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future_.)

* * *

The glass in Quinn's back feels like it's piercing through her entire body and it's shocking because it is. The tears in her eyes mesh with the blood on her face and still on her lips. It's not a drink she wants to taste. The truck driver gets it easy. She sees his army boots on the ground and he's pacing, talking jibberish she can't understand on his phone.

Her phone is smashed and she sighs in pain. She's on her way still - she just has no idea what, where this way is. Her body sings the electric but it has nothing to do with Walt Whitman and everything to do with wrecking pain. Of all the things and all the people and all the places all she begs for is peace but then there's a bright light and someone's soft dulled murmur from another life, and it's something about wheelchairs. (_Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword_.) She cries without sound.

* * *

They are back to silence. Granted, Quinn can't say anything. There's a tube in her throat and needles in her body. The most Rachel has said is through hums of distantly familiar songs. Sometimes she laces her fingers with Quinn's and it still feels like they fit. There's no ring on her hand anymore, it pulls down too much with its weight. Rachel taps on Quinn's knuckles. The girl is asleep, nestled somewhere between unconscious and high doses of pain medication.

Rachel doesn't leave the room, at all, so when Judy comes by, holding Quinn's cross and broken phone, the brunette finally cries for the first time. (_Maybe there's a God above but all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you._)

* * *

Quinn walks. Slowly, painfully. Rachel thinks how wrong Cinderella was. Her prince was charming, no doubt, but in that situation she would throw away both shoes and run to the one who helped her walk. She holds Quinn. Nothing else counts. (_what about the shoe? – it was digging in my heel. what about the prince? – he'll find someone to fit if he looks long enough. what about me? – so then she took me home, or I took her home, or we were both somehow taken to the closest thing._)

* * *

It's summer. It's very dry. They're kind of friends now. They're lounging by Quinn's pool, Santana and Brittany are bickering about something trivial in the background.

Quinn serves housemade ice cream parfait. She's taken a liking to Native American culture and everything is made from fruits and gourds indigenous to the nearby areas. There's butternut squash and paw paw, enrobed in toasted maple pine nut dressing and popped corn flavored with black walnuts, molasses and sorghum. It's a definite wampum to the girls' appetite.

The water splashes on Rachel's feet after Quinn jumps in.

It's joyous, it's free and there's nothing like the sound of laughter from her lips. It's spring, it's summer, it's the sun and for the first time in a long and freezing winter, Rachel's heart fills up.

* * *

There are swings in the Berrys' backyard and sometimes Quinn comes. The air is humid and the clouds don't help much in the heat. The swings are set low for when the brunette was a tiny kid and the Cheerio doesn't fail to make numerous jokes about it. Her legs still shake every now and then. They talk more.

The nights when the heat rolls over slowly, Quinn stays with Rachel until late. She whispers once, softly, sing-songs almost in Rachel's ear, "Did you know the sky starts from the tip of the grassblades?"

There's a pause of silence in between them. The Universe sings.

* * *

Quinn brings over drinks and sometimes splits or sundaes or ice cream. Her mixes have become more complex. It suits her, because she's more complex too. Today it's a strawberry lemon entirely vegan mocktail the blonde has made from organic strawberries and freshly squeezed lemon juice, agave syrup and sparkling water. Rachel's eyes sparkle as well.

"Do you think wishes on falling stars come true?" Rachel asks without seeking an answer. It's unassuming, and that makes it easy.

And then there's Quinn's soft lips on her forehead, another singsong answer.

And she smiles and says, "One fell on your forehead. I sealed the wish. It has to happen." (_your faith was strong but you needed proof_)

* * *

The team wins Nationals. NYADA sends Rachel a letter – a scout was there and she is in. Quinn is going to Yale. It's all kind of magic. Maybe it worked out for Cinderella. Who knows about the fairy godmother. But it seems it's working out for them.

No promises are made because those still sting but there are trains and buses and roads and chances. (_and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep)._

"Quinn," Rachel stands next to her friend for a final goodbye to their high school lives "What did you wish for that night?"

There are fragile and strong arms around two fragile and strong bodies. Another soft kissed is placed on a forehead. It's not a promise but it feels like something close enough. She'll take it.

The seas part, the road is open, no one turns back and no one turns to salt.

"_Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart," _Quinn whispers in Rachel's ear. The words linger as her silhouette fades in the distance.

* * *

(gold and fire)

Over the next four years they only see each other a few times. Rachel is first to visit Quinn in New Haven. She reaches Yale when the snow has just piled up and the huge pine trees make it seem like a frozen fairy tale. It is honestly gorgeous all around. The puffs of air that come out of their mouths seem like the smoke that comes from Aladdin's lamp except there is no magic genie to grant their wishes. Quinn is wearing a thick coat in a warm brown color and purple mittens. She looks like she is transported out of a children's book. They laugh about small things and don't really say anything worth remembering years ahead.

Quinn's dorm is a huge and castle-like but her room is small and is covered in white and black posters of French stars with charming smiles and forgotten names. The blonde starts mixing peppermint schnapps, dark crème de cacao (Rachel laughs when she hears this and chastises Quinn's sophistication in the Ivy school), a mint-flavored liquer that appears from the cabinets, hot chocolate. She tops it with vegan whipped cream and garnishes with some chocolate sprinkles. The sit across each other and it feels calm, and somehow homesy but at the same time not entirely comfortable. Rachel talks about drama classes, her favorite fruit food truck, the boy with long curly hair that talks to her, and meeting Sutton Foster. She speaks of big lights and flashing neon signs, of cabs in the middle of the night, of subway sounds and walks in Central Park. Quinn shares secret hallways, the feel of old books underneath fingertips, her favorite coffee shops, sitting in on lectures from Nobel prize winners. She mentions the new church she goes to and only now does Rachel notice there's still a shinning cross looping arms around her friend's neck. She can't remember if it's bigger or smaller than the one in high school but it's different and it seems to fit with the golden girl's easy smile.

When Quinn comes to visit Rachel in New York, it's spring. They joke about having to see each other more often but it doesn't happen. Instead, there's Rachel theater group, and her auditions, and Quinn is working on a start-up and she's doing research in economics. The Yale student teases lightly about how she can't sleep in such a loud city but she reaches dreamland pretty quickly, blonde locks sprawled like whirling tornado on Rachel's pillow.

They walk all across Central park but their conversation is chitter-chatter lost in the trees around. Rachel is preparing for an off-Broadway play starting in September and she shows her dance steps in the alleys. When she sings, passer-bys clap and cheer. Later, sitting in Lady M, eating a delicious pancake and vanilla cake, Rachel talks about Nash, the curly-haired boy who she is dating. She tells Quinn he has a deep voice, the stuff of narrator's on the radio, and that he has big arms in which she finds safety. Rachel talks about spring this time, and blooming trees, and feeling like she belongs. Quinn speaks of a tiny garden she loves on her campus, big windows, mahogany round tables in small seminars, changes and rates and percentiles and log plots of data, and mapping happiness in the workforce but it's like she's half-choking on her words. Rachel doesn't notice. Quinn thinks of fall. She thinks of leaves falling down from trees, falling on the street, the wind carrying them to chutes and tunnels and places to disappear underneath the ground. She thinks of words lost in the wind, falling similarly away, cast to distant shores, and hidden somewhere warm near the Earth's core. She thinks of all the places lost things could go. She realizes she still hasn't found herself.

* * *

The next time they see each other, it's a year later, a day after Thanksgiving. Lima, Ohio is too small for them. Rachel is still smiling and is still her dads' little muppet. Quinn and Judy seem to speak with their eyes onl, and they now understand each other on a level that seems nothing but miraculous. There is so much love, care, and pride in the way Judy beams at Quinn with light and hope. They are moving out, Judy has a new job in New Jersey, a small town with peace and new chances. It's also a place closer to Quinn. Rachel stops by for a minute before she leaves for New York and drinks the banana and strawberry smoothie Quinn fixes for her.

"Thank you for the drink, Quinn."

"Thank you for coming by."

They don't thank each other for anything else that day and neither of them thinks much of it. Things simmer down and slither away from keeping in touch afterwards. They don't call or text and they don't see each other. It feels like the last drop of a drink that shouldn't be finished in such quick gulps.

* * *

Terry is a skinny thing with constellations of freckles upon her cheeks. She does stand up comedy and volunteers in a middle school where she helps kids with math. She is a premed and a fine arts major, full of joy and wit. She sees Quinn on an open mic night. The blonde is in the audience, on a small table with three friends. There's something about Quinn's long wavy hair and her loose shirt and her skinny jeans, the playful glimmer of happiness on her face that makes Terry start cracking jokes about blondes, and soon after, about girls in bars with long wavy hair and loose shirts and skinny jeans. Quinn notices immediately, she blushes for a fraction of a moment that is soon lost in time and memory, and then she locks eyes with the comedian. She smiles.

When Terry is done and jumps off the stage, Quinn comes up to her. They walk to the bartender and have drinks. Words spill and Quinn talks about her favorite poems and getting lost in beautiful places, and new energy sources and recyclable surgical tools. Terry matches her and challenges her and makes her laugh, so when Quinn's friends leave, the blonde decides to stay and the freckled girl buys another round. Outside, later, under the stars, they fill space with cheers and giggles and inebriated jokes about anything silly and pointless. It's so easy, Quinn feels like her chest lifts from worry and she can breathe again.

"Did you know I almost died once?"

"Usually it only takes once." –Quinn laughs – "But I'm very happy you didn't."

Their first kiss is under a big dark green tree. Terry tastes like white chocolates and cinnamon and a suggestion of something sweet like caramel but lighter and easier to hold.

* * *

Nash plays the guitar and he isn't half bad, so when he ends up under Rachel's window the heads of neighbors plop out the windows to listen. Rachel is no typical Juliet, although she loves romance and being pursued. She loves being a lady and being treated as such but she loves singing more, so she joins in Nash's serenade and they both end up singing – him on the streets and Rachel from her tiny window looking at the big city.

Her small hands sink in the waves of his hair, a fierce and rough sea that covers gentle sands. His eyes are light blue and his lips are thin slices of dark pink. He works part-time in library and studies in NYADA as well, he loves building stages and wants to be a playwright. They roam around vegan restaurants. They frequent one especially, and the owners grow found of them, they even call them their own kids They go to Broadway whenever they get the money, and sometimes to live concerts of their favorite bands. When he picks Rachel up on his arms, Rachel feels like she belongs, and she finally believes she deserves more than cheap rings and high school wedding bells. Nash is well-built and loves to work out but he sinks on Rachel's bed like a foamy cloud that's made from nothing else but melting butter or the soft fur of a loyal dog.

They've been dating for more than a year, so when Nash meets Rachel's dads, he's both worried and not. All four of them end up playing Scrabble in the backyard and Nash wins.

"He's going to be a playwright, Daddy."

Hiram and Leroy sink in the love that swells from the young couple and see them under stage light and big applause. It's not hard to imagine.

* * *

Years later, Rachel is thanking her family, her dads, and Shelby, and her NYADA professors, and everyone who helped her shine. There's a Tony in her hands and the biggest smile ever on her face.

Years later, Quinn owns a small business that funds engineering of new bioprosthetic devices but her favorite pastime is taking care of her chain of restaurants, bars, and clubs.

The night when Rachel receives her Tony, Quinn happens to be in her office, one floor above the VIP lounge of Swerve, one of the city's most talked bars and clubs. Swerve is one of Quinn's special places, it was one of the first locations she bought and the only one for which she let a personal friend help with the design. Santana's touch can definitely be seen in the wild and upbeat entrance. The first floor is entirely lounge-like and relaxed. It's classy, dim-lit and fancy in the way the highlife of New York adores. Handsome bartenders throw and shake and swerve their hands around cocktails. Upstairs, sounds beat and bop and blur in maddening rhythms and there's little to be seen but flashing lights and dancing bodies. A small restricted staircase leads to the VIP section, and above that is Quinn's office. Everything is soundproofed but sometimes the owner flicks through cameras and lets the noise fill in her room.

Quinn is about to leave, because it's going to be an early morning and she actually has conferences to attend and new devices that need to be tested but then there's Bill, the manager of Swerve, a person of trust, who meets Quinn in front of her door.

"Rachel Berry and her Broadway bunch have just entered the underground parking. They had a few paparazzi following them but we sent them away at the gates. Berry's party is likely going around bars to celebrate the Tony awards."

"Hm." Quinn's brow furrows and something in her, long locked and cast away, like forgotten words seeping downwards as if leaves in autumn, stirs and awakes.

"Ma'am, the whole cast won many awards, and miss Berry –"

"Clear the VIP lounge for them. First drinks on us. Make sure they are happy. It's good press for us if they don't leave and stay the whole night. Take care of any paparazzi and offer to drive whoever needs driving back home."

Quinn's words are mechanical, her face is robotic. She leaves the last sentence to hang and steps away. There's a little string of her heart that pulls and wants to part away from the tissue, that wants to wrap around her throat and make her cry out, and scream, and beg and just go to the VIP lounge.

The thick-thack-thuck of Quinn's heels is the only thing to be heard and it soon disappears as her car roars away in the night.

* * *

In the morning, Bill, the manager, sends Quinn pictures from the night. The Broadway diva and her friends are all overjoyed, tables are filled with drinks, and the Tonys are thrown in shots here and there. The email contains a link to a Times article with praise for Rachel and a comment on Swerve's special party for them. Bill only drops a short line of text:

"I printed out picture 17 once I saw it, I had to. Rachel signed it. I thought it could be a nice thing to add to our collection of images for the hallway in the lounge."

Picture 17 is of Rachel blowing an air kiss at the camera, her award under her arm and the VIP lounge in the background, a bright sign of SWERVE donning the very top of the shot. Rachel's lips are ruby red, her face is clear like heaven, and her eyes are deep like mountain lakes, dark like desire.

* * *

In the morning, Lexie, Rachel's PR advisor brings her a warm drink, a fruit salad and copies of different papers. Rachel's head bangs and while the pressure of too much alcohol is too familiar for her new life, the singer seems unusually off balance.

"Lexie, who is the owner of Swerve?"

The next hour is spent reading about Quinn's bars, and clubs, and her restaurants, her company, her research and charity work.

In the evening, Quinn's secretary puts someone called Alexandra Wellington on the line, with a supposed business proposition. What comes out is a quick stream of sentences about Rachel Berry loving Swerve and wanting to frequent it, wanting to help Quinn make it the next "it" thing for the artists in New York. Quinn has no need for promotion and association, not in a bar that is already well-known. There's nothing she could get out of this agreement and there really isn't anything Rachel seems to be asking for in return. It's a game with no rules and no losing. It reminds her of high school and carrying the thermos mug around. The ball is in her court, so she says yes. Sometimes second chances taste like victory.

* * *

The first time they meet again, Quinn comes to greet Rachel personally at her table. Quinn is carrying a pink drink in hand and she is trying to remember how to exhale. She informs Rachel,

"This is something I made today. It has dark chocolate liquer, vegan because I assume you still are, mixed with raspberry liquer over ice and topped with the club's soda. I'm tentatively calling it Chocolate Berry Diva."

Rachel takes the drink, takes a sip and holds her eyes on Quinn. She leaves it on the table and wraps her arms around Quinn's back. After a while, she sighs and whispers,

"I've missed you so much."

Quinn lets the air out. She feels like floating away.

* * *

Bill and Lexie seem to hit it off on the second they meet.

Bill had met Quinn through a friend of a friend and had initially tried flirting with the girl but Quinn cast him off with simple words. Friendship grew and it felt to be the most natural thing. Bill oversees all of Quinn's eateries and clubs and feels protective of all things Quinn. He calls her sometimes, to check on her, and asks her if she needs anything in the world, the way a brother would fight bullies on the playground. Quinn trusts him without question.

Lexie is introduced to Rachel from the theater because "you're big enough to have someone do these things for you." There seems to be hardly anything serious about Lexie's jumping happy-go-lucky attitude but the minute she shakes hands with playwrights and musicians, it's Alexandra, and it's Miss Berry's PR, and there's contracts coming in.

Bill and Lexie seem not only to be hitting it off stellarly but they seem to be all whispers and yes, yes, indeeds around Quinn and Rachel. Bill keeps referring to Rachel's friends as the Broadway bunch and there's soon an additional page in the drinks menu that says "Berry Broadway drinks." Half of it is things Quinn made for Rachel that the diva loved. Lexie keeps calling Quinn the golden chick and Rachel laughs when Lexie takes her to a photoshoot around Quinn's bars that later appears on the singer's website titled "Golden Chique."

* * *

Swerve does become an art hub and the redecorations that take place fully embody that. Nothing Santana made is changed but now the place feels like Rachel too. Quinn is amused by the actors that file in and how the line of framed pictures of famous faces with signatures grows. She likes to stay in the shadows, because this is the hobby, this is the stuff for her free time but it's more often that she'll stay a long night up when she hears Rachel and the Broadway bunch are coming.

It's a night like those, when the VIP lounge is terrorized by Broadway stars going wild on karaoke, who argue about who gets to sing the next one, who dance like tables and chairs and sofas are the stage, who giggle about their names made into cocktail drinks and smile the smiles of first pages of newspapers.

Rachel spots Quinn coming over and there's enough liquid fuel in her to let go of whichever curtains have been holding her back. They've perfected this ritual. Quinn brings over a drink, talks for a minute, and leaves. It's the professional sort of friendly and the owner starts explaining but Rachel raises her hands in the air, yells something that sounds like let's dance. No one notices Rachel dancing, and no one notices Quinn dancing but everyone notices Rachel and Quinn dancing together.

When their legs tire, their blood is still pumping with music.

"Tell me now," Rachel slurs "about this drink you made."

Quinn has had some shots, handed from hands that seemed not tied to bodies on the dance floor, and she grins, pulling Rachel into her side.

"You muddle apples, and lemon, and cinnamon, too, and agave nectar, and sage, it – it all goes in a glass. And then you – then you –" Rachel is laughing and her eyes have flecks of distant stars in them, exploding, colliding, coming together. "Then you add ice, and cachaca, and you add apple juice to top it off. You roll in a shaker until it's blended well, then you pour into a lowball glass and you put in some fresh ice."

"On the rocks." Rachel half laughs, half says, all full of drunk and danced out happy vigor.

"On the rocks." Quinn agrees, her eyes trailing like a swimmer from the pools of Rachel's eyes, like a skier down the slope of her nose, and like a man lost in a storm looking for home around her lips, up, and down, and across, and this time they are fire red when the liquid goes in. Quinn's heart ignites.

* * *

(melodies and margaritas)

The light hits the metallic walls of the club in deep blue, violet, and red. Beats and melodies wrap around moving bodies. Tunes and notes chime in around tilted heads and jumping legs. It is so full that the music is the only thing that could pass around the dancing crowd. It is like one whole being, one entity that consists of passion and rhythm, of energy and fuel for life. The bass of whichever nameless song is blasting pumps through Rachel's veins and sends jolts to her heart. That is probably exactly how the human anatomy will never work in course textbooks but in Swerve rules do not exist, logic does not pass through the entrance, and reason melts with ice in drinks. Only suggestions and hints about a distant, separate reality remain, faint traces of what proper conduct was. Mostly, it's just the pulsating sound and the way people take life in big gulps.

Rachel's hair is like a thousand rivers floating in different directions. She is starting in a new production in a couple of weeks. It could be a role that puts her name beyond the daily chronicles and the fashions of the present and makes her a star to be remembered in many years to come. Right now, there is no thought of glory, fame or importance. All of her closer Broadway friends are scattered throughout, marking their territory on the floor. Even Lexie's smile flashes somewhere in between the swamp of people, body flushed to Bill's. For as brief of a glance that the diva steals of them, it's still enough to know that some people make sense, and those two certainly make a lot of it together. All of this is flashes under buzzing lights in many colors that blur together.

The Moon falls down and sinks under a distant horizon line. It's long past midnight but Rachel still feels like a modern-day Cinderella who throws her shoes away voluntarily. She has had more than plenty of alcohol, a situation that has become a regular occurrence at Quinn's club especially since the owner has made it clear the singer gets anything she wants in Swerve which having include a constantly reserved table under Berry's name, VIP entrance, free drinks, and special drinks with that. Drinks that Quinn has made for her. Rachel doesn't drink just for the drinking or the letting go, there's a part of her that doesn't want to admit to it, that hides it in the dark, but it's nights when there's no Bill waiting with a magic carriage in the form of a sports car to drive her back when she wishes not for a prince to find her but a fairy with golden hair and soft laughter to carry her home.

It's a night like those. She's lost her heels and she knows someone from the staff will keep them for her, it's happened before enough times that she knows someone will take care of all the things she has left behind, scattered. She's happily bouncing around the bar and the lines of framed pictures with famous faces.

"Hey, tiny princess. What spells have left you here alone?"

Quinn's voice is soft like a feathery touch, and the woman is familiar with her friend's thoughts about fairy tales and magic. There's magic in any night with Rachel for Quinn but there's a part in Quinn that keeps some things hidden in the dark too. What she admits to herself is that she is happy that she was around to pick up the inebriated mess of giggles that her friend is.

So they end up in Quinn's car, windows rolled down, singing Aqua and Disney songs on the road. Rachel insists they only drive in directions where the light is green, because that's how magic works, so somehow in their morning stumbling they end up at Quinn's apartment rather than Rachel's home. Quinn lives alone with a big fat cat called Toast who, nonsurprisingly, eats toast and everything else and likes to sleep on the blonde's legs or back, purring contently. Her apartment is on the last floor of a tall building and that's the only thing Rachel seems to realize. The frightening and gorgeous view of the city, half in slumber, half in waking, imprints like a postcard from a foreign country that exists only in surreal memories. The next thing Rachel feels is a comfortable surface and something like a cloud that surrounds her body. Then, only and wholly, peace.

* * *

The sound of a spoon swirling around the glass walls of a drink wakes her brings her slowly from her sleep to the very bright light that fills the room. The first minutes are a haze. Rachel doesn't quite know where she is but it feels soft and it somehow reminds her of her childhood, the sort of safe and treasured as when she was a kid nested in her fathers' arms. Quinn's smile shines bright as the sun and words come out in between her cherry lips that tell the singer it's freshly squeezed orange, grapefruit and just a hint of lemon. Quinn shuts the door behind her quietly and it's only then that Rachel realizes there's a fruit bowl next to the glass on the night table, and next to the table there's a chair with sweatpants and a big t-shirt. A pang of headpain finally reaches Rachel and realization completely dawns upon her. Drinks. Far too many. Her dress and heels are right next to the fresh change of clothes, so all the tiny diva can do is sigh, stretch and get up. She is in Quinn's apartment and the feeling of comfort has completely dissipated. She is a nervous wreck and her head is a mess.

Quinn is sitting on a red velvet cushioned chair. Behind her is an entire wall of books. Thin, thick, new, old, black covered or withered, paperback or hard copies, encyclopedias and series. Some smell of Spanish valleys and others have locked in between their pages the wind of mountains in the clouds. The blonde looks, for the first time in ages, small but also very content, like she belongs where she is. There's cup of dark liquid steaming and air coming out from it in puffs of wonderful aroma. Quinn looks up and there's a young guilt on her face, as if she is thirteen all over again.

"It's two in the afternoon and I rarely drink coffee but –"

Quinn shows Rachel around her place and takes her out for a proper meal in one of her restaurants because "you may as well see something else than Swerve which is half yours by now anyway."

* * *

It's a very tiny place, hardly more than a dozen tables.

"The Zagat loves us, though." Quinn informs as she holds Rachel's door.

Over the past few hours they've had an actual conversation. Not manners for show, not expected courtesies, finally words of value, stories of the past, of college, of growing up. Rachel is smiling and Quinn looks like light is coming from her. The singer is impressed as the staff knows Quinn by name. A young boy called Peter asks her if he should put a table. Quinn nods and Peter runs away, eager to please.

"So they're putting an extra table just for us? It wasn't enough that we had to cut the line?" Rachel is chuckling. There's only an elderly couple waiting to be seated. She's quite aware people only come here with reservation made way in advance.

"Well, Rachel, you had breakfast instead of lunch and after lunchtime, you may as well enjoy an early dinner made by the chef while you're sitting in the middle of the kitchen."

Quinn puts her hand on Rachel's back and nudges her forward. There are flower baskets everywhere and candles on the tables in the main area. It's romantic in a light and pleasing way, a slight but distinct feel of French, and a barely noticeable trace of jazz music whispering around. The blonde is holding the door towards the kitchen and Rachel is shocked. Instead of a messy, noisy place as she's seen in many other places, this one is cozy. A small number of workers greet the pair and continue slicing and chopping away. Peter and another waiter are setting up the table. They sweep around, and a girl scurries away murmuring to herself to get flowers.

"Can we have the vents working on high and the music in here the same, please?" Quinn instructs with ease.

Next thing Rachel knows they are back in the waiting area.

"I really like this place, Quinn. It's very quaint. I feel like it's hidden from the hustle and bustle of the city and you can just stop and enjoy here. It's delightful."

"It's delicious." The blonde chips in mischievously in reply but Rachel only furrows her brow, not understanding.

"It's delovely, dear." The old woman behind them replies. "It's from that musical, Anything Goes. "

Rachel gasps in shock, how could she miss a simple lyrics reference like that. She feels like she's missed an easy answer to a question on a test and the woman only chuckles and tells her that she looks a lot like a Broadway starlet, Rachel Berry "but you wouldn't have missed that if you were, would you now, love?"

The man beside her, her husband, grins.

"The things I forget about around you, love, are sometimes the most obvious but you're too distracting. Don't be too harsh on the young ones."

Rachel is shocked by the gentle implication behind the man's words, that they appear to be a couple in strangers' eyes. She's too much surprised of the idea that she barely hears Quinn starting a conversation with the pair. They exchange a few brief words, enough to figure out that the man and woman are celebrating their 55th wedding anniversary. Their hands are tied together like fisherman's knots and they smile at each other like nothing else in the world matters. It probably doesn't.

When Peter comes to take the elderly couple to their table, Quinn stops him and says "let me."

Instead, she takes them behind, near the kitchen, where the new table for her and Rachel had been set up. In the few minutes, the chef and his cooks had changed their uniforms with clean new ones, the air had cleared up from the vent and the music was now embracing the entire space. A huge flower vase was in the middle of the table, candles around it.

"My name is Quinn Fabray, and it is a pleasure to have you with us in my restaurant tonight. It is truly an honor to be able to share such a memorable night with lovely people like you two. Peter will help you with a list of special wines which are not included on our menu that we save for special guests. Your dinner is our treat."

There are smiles and thankyous everywhere. Rachel thinks that the way Quinn does it, the way she lets people in and lets them shine and thrive and enjoy, is precious. It's done without seeking acknowledgment or gains, it's quiet and honest. There's a part of her that's simply charmed by the blonde.

They sit in a table up front and they talk.

* * *

It becomes more frequent. Bill seems to have conflicts in his schedule more often and Rachel grows so accustomed to the soft leather seat next to Quinn in the blonde's dark blue sports car. The vehicle purrs seductively in the late night or early morning and the lights of the city change with the street lights, all neon, and green, and red, and blue, and yellow, blinking and firing colors, as if sending secret messages both to everyone and for no one to understand.

The change is not apparent, not in any fashion immediate, it's a slow progression. Rachel occasionally wakes up with Toast in her legs. The singer steals books from Quinn and fills her fridge with vegan friendly products. Their common friends joke about the fact that Rachel has a toothbrush with Quinn but the increasing visitations of the diva lead to the guest room and bathroom next to it turning into Rachel's own. They hardly speak of it, how easy Rachel fits around Quinn's arm, how her head lulls and sets against the blonde's collarbone, how Quinn weaves fingers through the singer's hair, the fire in her eyes that strikes when people surround the tiny diva, the eagerness in her steps when she walks quickly before Rachel to open a door for her.

* * *

Quinn is sitting on the second row, center, at Rachel's very first show of the new production. She is tapping her foot lightly on the floor in sync with the music. She's holding a huge bouquet of flowers. Rachel, of course, is spectacular. When Quinn only gets to see her for a second after the show, because there's press, interviews, fans, she gives her the flowers and a smile. Something in Rachel is born, like a new wind rising, knocking on the windows to be opened, like a bee humming love songs to a daisy, like a possibility. Something in Quinn burns as Rachel is forced to walk away from her.

* * *

"No, no, don't take me home, Quinn!" Rachel has her arms weaved around Quinn's neck like an ornament and is jumping to the beat. The blonde, however, is trying to remain in one place and take the ball of energy next to her away from the morning madness of another Swerve outing.

It's at this moment that Quinn realizes she has no idea what Rachel means. Is home Rachel's house or Quinn's apartment? It hits her like a jab in the guts, the knowledge that she has grown accustomed to Rachel in a way that she had forgotten was possible, in a way that rocks her to her core, frightens her and makes her feel newly born.

Later, the car roars away from the heart of the city. Rachel's house is in mystery lane, away from the expected and popular sights. She has a place around Central Park but murmurs to Quinn that she needs to get away. The Swerve owner is exhausted, and tired, and it's been one night too many of not sleeping. Thankfully it's Wednesday tomorrow, which means Rachel doesn't have a show, and she can rest. On one of the intersections, while they wait to pass, a middle-aged man carrying a canvas walks up to their car.

"I mean no harm! I am a painter!"

By the looks of it, he is not very sober either. All Quinn wants to do is drive away and not risk it but Rachel puts her small hand on the driver's thigh, her fingers tickling the inner side. The brunette uses her hand on Quinn's leg to put her weight on, and she moves closer to the window, invading Quinn's space.

"Draw us, draw us!"

Fifteen minutes later, they do drive away. The painter is happy with the overpay of a fifty dollar bill he holds in his pocket, the first piece of paper found in Rachel's wallet. The sketch of the two is black, grey and pink. A standard background of skyscrapers and NEW YORK written in slanted and wobbly handwriting perks up. But in the sketch the two are embraced, glued, tied, joined. Together.

* * *

The house is huge. Once they pass the security gates, three floors perk up from behind rows of trees. Quinn isn't surprised, she's dropped Rachel here before but she's never been inside. It looks both castle-like in a way that isn't even remotely Rachel-like and very modern in a way that's more suiting to a person in the world of art.

Rachel drags Quinn up to the second floor. Nothing is said when a king-sized bed appears in a room obviously decorated in Berry style.

"I'll leave you to sleep, Rach." Quinn mouths softly like a child holding a treasure in their hands. The way she looks at Rachel is full of admiration, because Rachel is drunk, and she's a mess, she's a chaotic jumble of energy and thrown limbs, but she's smiling freely, like there's no pain in the world, like there's nothing impossible.

So when the petite woman pulls Quinn to the foot of the bed and tosses her jacket aside, Quinn only nods.

In the bed, Rachel shifts a bit. There's no doubt, no questions, no words. She grabs Quinn's arm and puts it around her. She wants to be held. And she is.

* * *

They dance around each other for months. Sometimes things hurt. Things they can't acknowledge hurt. Nash, and Patrick, and Aron, and other names spill across a history Rachel mentions with her eyes looking everywhere but Quinn. Quinn has a line of names too.

"They were all great. People are great. Everyone can be, if you let them, and maybe, sometimes, if you help them. We all loved, we felt, and we went through life. But I don't want to go through life. I want to be challenged. I want to breathe fire. I want to grow in life."

"I'm happy you've had that, Quinn."

"I'm happy for you too, Rachel."

Rachel has seen all of Quinn's restaurants, bars, and clubs. She's been to the offices of her company's main buildings, and she's met enough managers and senior officers to be recognized by many. Quinn usually has a seat saved at least once a week for Rachel's show. Rachel knows the way to Quinn's office in all of the mazes of buildings, and Quinn knows all the lyrics of Rachel's songs. They exchange keys. Toast officially prefers to sleep with Rachel. Quinn pretends to be annoyed at the disloyalty of her cat. It's a fair excuse to share the same bed with Rachel, though.

* * *

"You have to dance with me, Quinn." Rachel taunts. There's no trace of asking, no hint of inviting. The singer's small hand envelops Quinn's and pulls her around closer. The blonde, however, disagrees. She chuckles and says dancing is only permissible after a taste of her new mango margaritas. The rim of the glasses sparkles with a salt mix made from mint leaves and sea salt. The shine of it welcomes the tip of the brunette's tongue, quick to dart out and take a lick. The bright orange color of the drink sits dormant, beckoning. The taste of mangoes, swirled around tequila, lime wedges and triple sec comes in misleadingly easy and sweet. It's during the second round when Rachel gets a bit dizzy.

"I told you it was strong, Rach, but you just don't listen!" Quinn is half-yelling, half-whispering in her year and Rachel doesn't know what it is, what it means, how to take in all the sounds and syllables. But the beat courses through her body and music will always be a language she understands.

"Dance it off with me!"

This time Quinn relents and lets the shorter woman guide them through the waves of moving bodies. There's little room to begin with and they dance close to each other. The flashes of color paint Rachel's face in light blue, forest green, deep red. Bursts of white make their movements seem like cut-outs from a stop motion film. There are shadows under her eyes in purpura, streaks of magenta in her hair, down her arms slide lilac and peach beams of light. There is something appetizing, something wild and unleashed in all these colors on Rachel's face, all these chances and differences laid bare in front of Quinn. Which one shall it be, which one does she want?

The brunette opens her fingers like spiders webs, eager to touch, eager to feel more, and places them on the blonde's hips. One in front of the other, their bodies press, pull, slide up and down along each other. Rachel's nose touches Quinn's cheek and traces down to her jawbone. The singer's lips part and close against the porcelain neck skin and it's not a kiss, it could just be accident, Quinn tries to think but her mind is a foggy mess of tequila and music telling her _let go, be free. _The blonde's left hand slowly moves from Rachel's waist to her lower back. Her fingertips play with the column of Rachel's spine which she easily feels under the thin silky material of a black low-cut dress. The gentle pressure escalates and pumps higher as the rhythm of the club pulsates alive. Quinn brings Rachel's entire body fully pressed to her own, her free hand is lost in the layers of dark chocolate hair, nails drawing slow, sensuous circles on her skull. Rachel's eyes try to make sense of the images of Quinn she catches. She feels her skin yearn and burn in desire. Little droplets of sweat on the blonde's neck tease her devilishly. Like a lost soul in a desert, her tongue escapes the fortress of her teeth, parts her lips and tastes Quinn's neck.

Rachel's hands are fisting and crunching and pulling at Quinn's blazer, there's no way they could physically be closer but the singer just wants one thing: more. The owner of _Swerve_, the one who knows every inch of this place, has no idea where she is, on which planet she walks, not anymore. She feels the passage of a wet and eager tongue, she shakes as it glides from her collarbone to her jawline. It's feral and bestial and primal. When a moan comes out, both women don't know if they can claim ownership or if they should feel proud in producing it out of the other one. Rachel's hand moves up, feeling the line of Quinn's blouse, the bumps of her buttons, the uplift of her breast, the expand of her naked neck and finally gets to caress the soft face. The brunette hooks the pad of her thumb under Quinn's chin and plays out the rest of her fingers across her partner's cheek. She nudges her head upward, both slow and gentle and undoubting and unquestioning.

The Broadway star is acting on an instinct she never sensed she had but she's biting down and marking the porcelain piece of art in front of her, marking Quinn in the middle of the dancefloor with everyone around. She feels strong pressure on her ass, fingers kneading and almost lifting her up, and this time it's entirely certain that the shameless moan comes out from Rachel's throat.

"We need to – Uh – Oh God" Rachel attempts, a mess of pleasured sounds, words and music meshing together.

"Fuck.. Yes… We… Out of here." Quinn's heated voice spurs out.

Rachel isn't sure if the blonde goddess next to her meant to say they needed to fuck or needed to get out of her but she's so ready, so willing, she could come in this hoard of drunk dancing junkies, she just needs that sweet up and down, up and down of Quinn's leg between hers.

She's being pulled and pushed and weaved through passages of bumping and grinding bodies, the next thing she knows she's going up the stairs that lead to Quinn's office. Suddenly, the music goes out and it's all quiet. Rachel looks around and faintly realized she's not been here before. Her ears pump from the loud sounds and everything sounds muted.

Everything except Quinn's guttural "I want you, fucking damn it, I want you so much," that the blonde mouths once she's got the door closed and Rachel slammed against it.

Quinn is a volcano ready to bleed with passion and her eyes are boiling lava. Rachel is wild tsunami lunging forward, her lips a wrecking havoc of a natural disaster as she answers, "Oh, you get to have me, oh you – "

Their lips glue together and it's the calm before the storm. It's their first kiss, fueled by alcohol and powered by all the swaying sweet songs of sin from the club, their dance was crazed, their thirst is unpausing and beckoning, but it's their first kiss. By no means a conscious process, both of them slow down, hitting something like a pause to the moment.

It doesn't last. The second they part, it's over and done. All the kisses that follow are rushed, hurried, begging, pleading, asking for more. Vibrations tease out of them as moans and grunts and whispers of indiscernible words. Quinn has caught on to Rachel's desires even from back on the dancefloor, and she's eager to please. She has her right leg between the two perfect and sexy and ridiculously long and sexy and fuck her mind is a mess but she's pushing her knee into Rachel's core, the black dress riding up, and Rachel is wet and humping and pulling and fuck. Her tiny hands tie into Quinn's hair and twist it tightly, and it hurts but no one is stopping. The singer tries to lift herself up as Quinn's leg brushes up every time, she tries to ride all the way with up, she stands on her toes to get more and then a pair of hands grasp again at her ass and pull her up. Her heels fall and she locks her legs around the waist of her new found lover.

They kiss, they kiss, they kiss, they kiss and they fall on the black leather couch.

"Fuck it, you have good taste in furniture. This is softer than -" is the most coherent and longest sentence the young woman gets out before she feels her zipper slide down and slender nimble fingers tear the dress down.

"I've good -" Quinn starts, her breath hitching, "taste in -", her tongue swirling down to reach Rachel's bra "fucking everything."

"I know babe," Rachel purrs, arching up into the toned body above her, quickly pushing the blazer and inching up Quinn's lacy blouse, "that's why you're fucking _me_."

The blonde woman loses it, loses it at the sound of Rachel being so confident and alluring. She doesn't bother unhooking the bra and taking it off, she rips and throws it away and latches onto the top of her breast. Quinn is hungry and what turns her on so wickedly is that she feels the rhythm of a pulsating heart right under. Her teeth draw out and she sucks hard.

The singer is unbuttoning the skinny jeans hiding all the precious secrets she wants to uncover tonight, she wants to shred off the clothing but everything is swirling in misty margarita madness, so she only pulls them down as much as she can, and it's enough to reach Quinn, enough to start teasing her.

They do it over, and over, and over, and over. When they're done, their chests expand in deep, long sighs. They're on the floor. Exhausted. Rachel curls under Quinn's chin, her arm crossing over defined abs and her fingers playing with the spaces between the taller woman's ribs. Quinn feels Rachel's perfume lulling her to sleep. And sleep comes easily for them both, feeling safe in their soft naked skin embrace.

* * *

(chocolate and vodka)

"Get me out of here right this instant, Alexandra!" Rachel tries to whisper and be quiet but her voice is very stern.

Lexie just chuckles.

"So was it good?"

"It was beyond good – wait – not the point," the singer is looking around. Quinn's place looks eerily peaceful. It's something about mornings and their slow starts.

"Oh ho-ho, that is totally the point, Rach. Come on, you like this girl, she adores you, go be happy."

"Don't you just go-be-happy me like that, do you hear me? Your nerve! I can't be here, I need to get out of her place, like now."

"Rachel?" Quinn's voice calls out.

"You have fun now, princess," Lexie laughs into the phone and hangs up.

The brunette turns around to face her… well, Quinn isn't anything of hers but somehow the word love does ring true. They had been wild and frenzied, needy and wanting for so much of last night but not entirely. The soft kiss with which the tall beauty in front of her had wished her beautiful dreams was nothing but a most tender secret Rachel planned to keep.

"Well, you look nice," Quinn softly chances.

Rachel tugs on the oversized t-shirt she had pillaged from the drawers.

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't meant to go through your stuff, I just wanted something to wear that was a bit more comfortable."

The smirk on the other woman's face is a clear revelation to how amused she is.

"I guess you can't wear a tightly fitting party dress when you're tired in the morning. And especially if said dress is half ripped apart."

"Quinn Fabray!"

"I'm sorry, okay? If you weren't so freaking attractive!"

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, you little scoundrel!"

The side of Quinn's lips lifts up and she presses a kiss onto Rachel's cheek.

"Whatever. We both know you're the shorty here. Feel free to take a shower and steal some more clothes, I'll go make us breakfast."

There's cupboards opening and forks and knives being shuffled about. Coffee starts boiling, plates are being taken out. Rachel tries to remember the sounds of all of this domestic bliss before she turns on the water. She closes her eyes and lets it calm her.

They sit together in the kitchen, there's French toast, entirely vegan, made with ripe bananas, almond milk, cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, vanilla, vegan margarine, bowls of fruit, quinoa and sweet potatoes. Everything is bright and somehow easy to take in – the way Quinn moves her hair to the side, the way she chews and how she holds her coffee cup.

"We're okay, right?" Rachel finally asks because it's burning her from the inside.

"Of course we are, Rach," is the simple answer. No pause, no doubt, just simple truth coming out.

"And we don't have to make anything of this, I mean, we can keep it casual, yes?"

This time there is a brief pause before Quinn's mouth moves in an answer. If the blonde feels any sort of regret or sadness, it doesn't show. Nothing shows. Rachel can't help but be surprised why suddenly the face of the ice cold cheerleader from high school comes up, the one that never let anyone get to the real her, all facades and illusions.

"Of course, Rachel, anything you wish."

* * *

It becomes a habit so rapidly that the Broadway star wonders if she has ever lived her life any other way. In some sense, it feels like this pattern is only a slight variation but still a natural progression on all that they have shared before in their lives.

Most nights Rachel doesn't go out drinking, she certainly parties less. Her show is in full swing and the critics eat her. Of course she has talent but her days are endless hours of practice, of getting the perfect intonation, of holding the right tone just for that extra second longer, of making a stronger tap with her shoes.

Her nights, however, are very different. They're not like when she was a NYADA student, coming home and crashing in bed, body aching, eager to get a few hours of sleep. And they're not like her recent past, wild dancing and drinking with hopes of ending up in Quinn's car, getting the chance to be around the blonde even for that extra second. No, nights are spent entirely with Quinn, without much talking and without any hesitation. Sometimes she goes to Quinn's apartment, others they end up at Rachel's little place or they run to her house for weekends.

They've fallen into this unspoken agreement that seems to work for each. Quickly, they have learned ways to dismantle their bodies, to bolt down their touches to beds, walls, floors, tables, chairs, to screw and unscrew their minds with sounds of lustful desires, to chain their needs to one another.

In the beginning of this new tradition, one night after a glorious marathon of sex, Quinn had rolled onto her side and pulled Rachel into her. She'd nuzzled into her and whispered with such caution, like a child who doesn't know if they have permission to touch, "I don't know where I would be without you."

Rachel felt her body tense at the admission but she had no words. She pretended to be asleep. After that little incident, Quinn never spoke of her feelings or anything remotely related to romance or affection. The singer didn't think much of it, not at first. On the nights her new lover would be especially gentle, especially soft or hesitant in her kisses, Rachel would silently pray for this to stop. It was like Quinn poured all the things she couldn't, for whatever reason, say into her touches. And Rachel didn't want that, she didn't want that at all. Everything in Quinn made her want to run and jump bridges and hide in the deepest depths of the Earth. She couldn't love her, she had decided that very first morning when she woke on the floor, covered in bruises and scratched and in Quinn's arms, who even asleep held her like she was the most prized possession, the most precious pearl. No, the actress had made her mind, she couldn't love Quinn, the Quinn that bullied her and pushed her and belittled her when they were younger. She couldn't love her and she couldn't think about why it was that everything in Quinn made her run with fear but everything in her own self craved Quinn like the shore craves the ocean waves.

Quinn was entirely certain she was in love with the little diva and just as that, she was certain there was no way this girl was going to leave her anything but heartbroken and shattered. Sometimes it felt like that already was the case. The Swerve owner had heard the phone conversation that first morning but despite it she wished. When they were having breakfast all she wanted was the courage to ask Rachel on a date but instead there were soft brown eyes pouring pleas into hers, wanting that foul, wretched word, _casual_.

And who was Quinn to deny her? But who was she to deny herself as well? So they struck up this wordless arrangement. They both got a little something out of it. Not quite enough for Quinn and only a bit too much for Rachel. They practically lived together, they slept together, ate together, walked around the city, shared errands and exchanged favors. Quinn tried one night, a feeble attempt, to put to language what she could only chance to express by her body. She tried to tell Rachel how much she has grown and how she is a better person because of her but all the singer did was close her eyes and breath air in so rhythmically that if Quinn hadn't learned the patterns of her sleeping breath before, she could have been fooled.

They were in bed, naked in raw, sunlight trying to flicker in through the curtains. Rachel was humming and flicking through a portfolio of pictures that she had to arrange, Quinn was putting pen to paper and sketching some design.

"There's a charity gala that a number of Broadway theaters are having," Rachel broke the silence, "Basically everyone in the business donates something and it all goes to art schools and child education." Quinn hummed in reply to show that she was listening but didn't lift her gaze from her sketch. "It's this Tuesday and I'd like you to be my plus one."

"Yeah, I heard about it from Bill, he's gonna be there with Lexie." Quinn took a quick look at Rachel and smiled, "Sure, I'll be there, I'd love to support you."

"Oh you just say that, I'm sure you're secret motivation is eating all the dessert they're offering from our money."

In between her laughter, Quinn manages to say, "Well, if your money is going for art _and_ food, how can I miss that?"

The event goes smoothly, much like any social outing the two have attended together. Rachel's cast know Quinn and chat amicably with her, Bill and Lexie make an appearance two and it's evident how glued to the hip they've become. Bill insists the red velvet cakes are the best red velvet cakes in the history of red velvet cakes and he swiftly leads Quinn to try them leaving Lexie alone with Rachel.

"You're are the biggest moron I know."

"Need I remind you how you get your paycheck? Me! This moron!" Rachel points her index finger at herself, immediately taking a defensive, not even knowing why she is in this position.

"You're fucking things up with Quinn, and you're not just fucking her, you're fucking her up as well." Alexandra's voice is so even and so on point, it almost makes Rachel stutter.

"I'm not – "

"Oh, yes, you are. Just because you're keeping it on the down low doesn't mean that Bill and I haven't caught on to your new lifestyle. Rachel, you guys live together and do everything together. Quinn worships the ground beneath your feet and the air you breathe, so I'm sure the only reason you two are not holding hands and raving about how absurdly perfect you are for each other is because you haven't told her. So stop fucking things up!"

"Tell her what exactly, Lexie?" and the singer is completely furious, "My life is my business and we're both fine with the way things are."

"That you love her even though you're scared." This time Lexie's words aren't angry, aren't part of a verbal duel, they simply come out and are. When Rachel doesn't say anything, doesn't try to deny it, doesn't say they're just friends who fuck every now and then, that they don't even like each other, her manager only sighs, "Whatever. She matched your whole theater's donation tonight by the way. I'm sure she doesn't want you to find out this soon and from me but I think she wants to build an arts center and name it after you. So hope you're that good in bed for her to stick around, cause you really are being the biggest moron I know."

That night, Rachel still doesn't feel brave enough to speak, still doesn't feel like she understands herself and what she wants. When Quinn tries to reach for her panties, a perfected routine, the singer stops her. They only kiss that night. Slowly, patiently, like waiting to be allowed to come back where you belong.

* * *

Every night after the closing curtains falls, there's many flowers in Rachel's room but always, always, a yellow roses and tulips bouquet from Quinn.

The flower guys who delivers them tries to flirt,

"You know tulips stand for grace and elegance? You certainly have both talents in spectacular amounts."

Rachel doesn't blush, doesn't smile, she's used to off-handed compliments and advances from all sorts of people.

"What do yellow roses mean then?"

"Friendship," the man replies, understanding he doesn't have much of the chance with the star performer of the show.

"So what do you reckon this bouquet means?"

"Uh, well, something like, you're beautiful to me and I cherish you as a friend?"

He leaves Rachel alone as she takes off her costume shoes and dress. It suddenly feels like a really tiring night.

* * *

Rachel and Quinn are seated on a small table in the back corner of a jazz bar. It's all very cliché but not in a way that comes off too strong and annoying. An aging black piano player with a fedora hat and in a slightly torn and worn suit makes love to the keys. The singer is a sassy kind of overweight but endearingly so lady who has introduced herself as Sweet Georgia Brown.

"Don't believe her, that's not her name, that's the name of an old jazz tune," Rachel is slurring her words, she is leaning into Quinn, has the palm of her hand curled around the inside of her thigh, her head on the blonde's shoulder. "Hate how people assume no one knows these things."

Quinn kisses Rachel's forehead because they're both drunk and these things are allowed when they're not sober. It's a strange reversal, how sex has become the norm in their interaction but actual care is only permitted when inebriated. Whenever they do such things, things like going out to enjoy each other's company, alcohol is the price to pay. Ethanol dims the senses and blurs the lines well enough so if both of them squint slightly, they find all they want and need.

Sweet Georgia Brown has a deep and powerful voice. The sweetness in it is very alluring and there's something definitively motherly to it. She is wearing a simple brown and green dress and is barefoot next to the piano, all earth and trees. Quinn and Rachel keep downing vodka.

"Let's just go to my place, all the smoke and vinyl records on the wall are too much," the taller woman offers.

"I thought the art connoisseur in you liked that thing."

"I also like you naked on my bed."

There's little talking after that, just a fast cab and fiddling for keys.

Even when drunk, though, Quinn never forgets to open the door and let Rachel in first. The singer was expecting to be thrown against the nearest door but she feels cold hands take her coat off.

"You're all mine tonight," catches in Rachel's ear. And it's new, seduction and promise are new.

"Make me a drink first?"

Quinn nods and pulls out shakers and liquers and glasses and –

They drink by those huge windows where the city keeps looking at them, puzzled and questioning, alive and moving, an entity of its own.

Whatever the blonde has made is sweet like candy and is soon downed to the last drop.

It's so sweet that Rachel doesn't have the heart to do anything but just kiss Quinn. It's the second time they've only kissed.

They fall asleep in each other's arms, Quinn thinking that somehow she got lucky, Rachel thinking that it's not just tonight that's she's all Quinn's, it's any night, any day. Anything different is utterly absurd.

* * *

"What did we have last night?"

"Vodka?"

"No, not at the bar, what you made here."

"Oh, uh, chocolatini. Vodka, chocolate liquer, cherry rum, garnished with maraschino cherries which you love."

"You seem to be a walking encyclopedia of cocktails."

"Anything for the lady."

"And one for all the things I love."

"It's my job."

"Are you still drunk?"

"Yeah, sure."

"But you'll be okay if I leave you alone for the rest of the day?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Quinn, will you go out on a date with me tonight?"

"Yea, su—What?"

Rachel kisses her lightly. Quinn kisses back.

"I'll take that as a yes."

* * *

(porch swing and a little home)

Rachel's new hobby is decorating Quinn's restaurants. Quinn's new hobby is decorating Rachel's skin with kisses.

Love, love, love.

This time it's simple, this time they both know how they feel. It takes a little fixing and teasing, coming apart to come together but they manage. They manage with long walks hand in hand, they manage with bickering over dinner, they manage with a little tears and some laughter.

Quinn now sends bouquets of white roses which mean reverence and red roses which do mean love but also beauty, courage, passion. Rachel refers to Quinn as her girlfriend in front of the media (Lexie and Bill chuckle, because, about time.)

Rachel draws little chubby figures on all of Quinn's product sketches which infuriates the blonde ("I almost presented that draft with your orange polka-dot monster on it, how dare you!") but it also secretly amuses her. Quinn leaves Rachel love letters on the fridge.

* * *

They exchange rings, vows, a first married kiss. They buy a house together. They share cars. They adopt a pretty little girl from Peru called Mayra. She has bright eyes and sometimes when she laughs she freezes because she is still not sure if she's allowed to be so happy. Rachel sings to her every minute of every day. Quinn loves reading fairy tales to Mayra and she finally feels she's got a shot at a happy story.

Sometimes things aren't so great, sometimes they're sad and troubled but they're a family so sometimes is actually becoming rare.

* * *

"How are you not going to the Oscars?"

"Well, you're busy with work and someone has to pick up Mayra from school and put her to bed and – "

"Rachel."

"Quinn? Love of my life? Song of my song? Heart of my heart?"

"Mayra and I are coming to watch you win."

* * *

When they're very wrinkled, on warm evenings they like to sit outside on their countryside house porch and watch the sunrise.

"Do you want some tea, love? I'll make you your favorite," Quinn offers, holding her lover's hand like a holy piece of heaven, "I'll put in some lemon and honey too."

"I'm perfectly fine as I am, Quinn," Rachel smiles.

"How about some lemonade with lime then?"

"I'm quite content, dear."

"Well, I'm going to get a drink to sip on, are you sure I can't mix up something for you?"

"I'm happy when I'm with you, you don't need to do anything but be here and hold my hand and drink your fancy tea."

"Oh how the lady scolds me!" Quinn jokes and disappears inside.

Weary, trembling arms circle around her waist in a minute. The cup of steaming herbs is almost ready. Rachel's nose bumps into Quinn's shoulder. It's the most familiar and welcoming feeling in the world.

"Some water would be great."

"Are you really happy, Rachel?" The singer nods. "Was life what you wanted it to be?"

"Oh, no, Quinn. It was so much more. Was it what you wanted?"

"You've always been what I wanted. And still, you managed to give me more."

"Your tea is going to run cold."

"I'll heat it up again. Your drink then. Ice? Lemon? Plain?"

Rachel laughs.

"Just some tap water and your lips."


	2. references

I fell out of love with his story at one point and abandoned it. Now it's finished, all glittered and pasted into one long thing, no chapters. It all goes dedicated to **elitemassacre6** and **gllover22**. Thank you both for your continued & quite wonderful support. Wouldn't have finished this without you two.

And maybe one day I'll actually get to revising and editing stories before I post them but for now, oh well. Enjoy, dear readers, and be responsible in your drinking – you never know who you'll fall in love with and in what condition of inebriation. Love never leaves you sober anyway.

references.

**Bible:**

Proverbs 20:30

Jeremiah 29:11

Matthew 10:34

1 Kings 3:9

**Prose:**

Emma Donoghue – Kissing the Witch

**Poetry:**

Robert Frost – Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Andrea Gibson - Wasabi

**Songs:**

Anything Goes – Delovely (Broadway, listen to Laura Osne and Colin Donnell)

Leonard Cohen – Hallelujah

Sweet Georgia Brown is indeed a famous jazz tune. But there's also a bar singer who goes by that name. She's pretty cool, although legend has it she only appears (yes, like a magic jazz & blues singing genie) in dim-lit bars and only when people are walking slightly on the wild side.

drink up:

**little girl drinks:**

juices: cranberry and apple; tomato and cucumber; tomato and carrots and apple; watermelon and raspberry; peach and orange; mango and kiwi; pineapple and pear; strawberry and lemon;

lemonade

slushies: watermelon; cherry and blue raspberry;

banana and strawberry smoothie

hot stuff: white pear, grey lavender, honeybush caramel tea; peppermint schnapps, dark crème de cacao + mint-flavored, hot chocolate, vegan whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles;

ice cream parfait: butternut squash and paw paw, enrobed in toasted maple pine nut dressing and popped corn flavored with black walnuts;

**big girl drinks:** Chocolate Berry Diva: dark chocolate liquer (vegan) mixed with raspberry liquer over ice and topped with soda; apples, lemon, cinnamon, agave nectar, sage, ice, cachaca; mango margaritas; vodka, chocolatini (chocolate liquer, cherry rum, garnished with maraschino cherries)


End file.
